The Colonel and the First Lieutenant
by words without
Summary: Roy, being an idiot, confesses his love to a certain someone in the worst possible way. *A now-finished series of Royai oneshots. As most of these were written years ago, quality may vary. Criticism wanted!*
1. Colors

AN- Assorted Royai one-shots. Old work alert.  
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#1

_**Colors**_

It never failed to surprise Roy Mustang, how the simplest questions could drive him completely crazy. Like 'what's your favorite color?' for example. He never quite knew how to answer that one. At least, not after Ishbal. He knew he was reading waay too into the question, but either way, the fact remained that he had no answer to give. And when he considered the choices, he only became that much more uncertain.

Red wasn't an option, it reminded him too much of Ishbal. Red was fresh death. Red was blood oozing out of people and staining the sand beneath. Red was the thick ooze drying on his uniform, a permanent stain. Red was anger, anger at himself and at his lot in life. Red was the color of the eyes of the Ishbalans…the people he had slaughtered.

Orange? Orange…orange was fire. Orange was destruction. Orange was the burning flames of a Hell far worse then anything the devil could claim bragging rights to.

Yellow was out too. Yellow was the sun, the sun that hung over Ishbal and never stopped burning. It shinned, unrelenting, burning skin and bleaching bones. Under it, everything looked harsh, sharp, unforgiving. Yellow was also a good word to describe himself, he thought, and that was certainly no compliment. No, yellow was definitely not very high on his list.

Green, then. Maybe green….no, not green either. Green, as he thought about it, green was decay. Green was rot. Green was that sickly color injured limbs turned right before they were hacked off. Green was what his face turned immediately after his first battle, when he finally had a chance to look around. There was blood and fire, and not much else. Bodies were everywhere. Some poor souls still burdened with life cried for help, for water, for Mother. They were largely ignored. Why bother? If they were soldiers, they were replaceable, and if they were Ishbalans, then they'd die anyway. The military took no prisoners.

Nearby, a few soldiers given that tedious job of shooting the Ishbalan survivors went about its grim way. As Roy watched, one soldier found a young boy—maybe ten, maybe twelve years old—who opened one eye and whimpered a bit. Roy wondered what he was thinking. Was he scared? Desperate? Lonely? Did he, a child given the job of being an adult, now revert back, instinctively, to his true nature and cry for his mommy to come and make everything ok again? Or had he seen too much? Was he already an old man at heart, cynical and welcoming his death?

Whatever the case, in a few seconds it wouldn't matter. The soldier took careful aim—lest he waste one of his precious bullets—and fired neatly into the boy's chest. The boy's body jerked, his mouth flew open, his eyes rolled up in his head. Blood dripped from his mouth. For several moments, the body continued to twitch. Just like a dog's.

Roy, a new recruit, still young himself, still new to the battlefield and its gruesome truths, had to turn away. He could still see the boy when he closed his eyes, though…he vomited, a green puddle forming at his feet.

No….green wouldn't work, either.

So, his favorite color wasn't red, orange, yellow, or green…what did that leave? Brown? No, brown stood for the bodies, thousands of them, that sat and slowly baked in the sun. Ishbalans were dark-skinned to begin with—they turned almost black after lying around for a few days.

Black…hah, not likely. Black was death to the extreme, more so even then red. Black was nothing, was no one. Black was the end of everything. Hell wouldn't be a pit of flames, Roy figured, it'd be black. It'd be emptiness…despair…

He wasn't sure, of course, but if he had to choose, he'd paint his soul black too.

Blue was the color of the beautiful sky over the desert city, clear and pure. Who would have guessed, looking at that sky, what it shined over? Likewise, purple was the sunsets of Ishbal, as was pink….they'd been famous for those sunsets, once. There was so much open land, you couldn't help but have a good view. But that had been long ago, before the city was engulfed in war, and clouds of brackish smoke filled the air and hid the sunsets. Roy secretly lamented the loss of beauty like that. There wasn't enough of it in this world.

Roy sat at his desk and contemplated all this. He'd gone straight through the rainbow, and had found exactly….nothing. Oh well, it wasn't an important question anyway. But still, it would be nice if he could come up with an answer…

"Sir? Are you done with that paperwork?"

He looked up to see First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye standing at attention in front of him. He instantly got lost, as he always did, in her eyes-her beautiful, amber eyes that, whether shining with anger or softening with a smile, never failed to make his heart race. He could and did get lost in those eyes…it was a little 5-second slice of heaven.

"Yeah, I'm done. Mostly."

"…Mostly, sir?"

"Yeah…I mean….you know…"

"You haven't started yet, have you, Colonel Mustang."

How did she do that?

"Weell….no."

Riza sighed, but didn't seem to be able to muster up enough anger to convince him she meant it. Maybe it was because she was so used to him slacking off by now.

"Well, it's too late to get started now…you'll have to finish tomorrow morning, sir."

"Yup, guess so….heading home now, Hawkeye?"

"Yes sir."

"Well then, wait up."

It was their typical routine. He would walk her out of the building, before they went their separate ways home. Sometimes he asked if he could walk her all the way to her door, but she always refused. She said it would make no sense, since he lived in the opposite direction. He'd tried to explain that love made no sense, that was why it was love at all, but she had ignored him. She always thought he was fooling around when he said stuff like that. Oh well.

The two walked down the hallway, side by side. Riza cast a concerned look at her colonel.

"Sir, before…you seemed to be lost in thought about something."

Roy grinned ruefully. She knew him too damn well.

"Oh, it was nothing important."

"Sir…"

"The usual maudlin thoughts, Hawkeye. Nothing to worry about."

She gave him a dirty look, one that said quite clearly that she felt his grim daydreams _were_ something to worry about. He held up his hands in defense.

"I'm serious!" He laughed to prove it to her. "Heh, I'm not about to do anything crazy, if that's what you're worried about."

"Yes sir…" She paused, uncertain. "But, sir…what was it you were thinking about?"

"Oh….just how sometimes there are simple questions that can't be answered. Know what I mean?" He assumed she didn't.

"Yes sir." He looked at her, surprised. "I understand. But _you_ have to understand that, even if you can't find the answer, you should still ask the question."

He shook his head, grinning. Jeeze, all he'd been thinking about was his favorite color, or lack there of…except…on a deeper level, he'd been thinking about something much, much different. And Hawkeye had hit the nail dead on, as always. He found it ironic, that to the question he really wanted an answer to-the question of if he really was a monster-she didn't give him a response. Instead, she just told him to keep looking.

But in a way…in a way, that was exactly what he'd wanted. No one could answer that question for him- he'd have to figure out where his soul lay on his own. What he wanted was someone who understood why he had to keep asking the same thing over and over again…because, maybe some day, there'd be an answer. It seemed Riza understood that just fine.

Amazing, wasn't it?

He looked at Riza, intending to thank her, but instead stopped dead in his tracks. Of course! He had it! The answer! Not to the big question, but to the little one—what his favorite color was. It was so obvious! Why didn't he see it before!

Amber!

His favorite color was amber!

Amber, the color of Riza's eyes. When he thought of amber, he thought of Riza, and that was nothing if not a good thing!

Heh…he shook his head, amused. In less then five minutes, Riza Hawkeye had answered a question that had been bothering him for days…and helped him at least come to terms with a second one. How the heck did she DO that!

Roy grinned, and ran to catch up with her. He was going to ask her if he could walk her home again today, he decided. Sure, she had said no before, but, hey…'you should still ask the question', right?

Besides…he was feeling lucky today.

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AN- NOTE- fixed-up version because the typos were driving me nuts.


	2. Life at the End

#2

_**Life at the End**_

It was ironic, Roy thought, how after all the months they'd had together, he still felt as if he'd been jipped. He supposed this was the way all last nights felt—even if there were years preceding them. The end of something great always felt as if it came far too soon.

The worst part of it all was the uncertainty. He wasn't sure why. He should have been grateful for the small hope that still remained—it gave them both something to hold onto, desperately, praying the boat wouldn't sink even though there was a hole in the bottom the size of a baseball. He should relished the chance to play the optimist—god only knew how rare a chance that was for him. For some reason, though, he still hated the uncertainty.

He wanted it to be done with, over, the end, goodbye. Once it was done, then that was it—no more stress, no more fear, no more dread, just the sweet emptiness that he imagined death would bring. He was a soldier, after all, and any soldier would agree with him when he said that the moments preceding battle were far worse then the battle itself. They gave too much time to think. Thinking could be deadly.

Either way, though, there was still that chance that things would turn out alright, and he lamented it. Now, tomorrow, when everything ended, as he knew it must, he'd have to contend with that sinking feeling failed hope brings. He'd go to his grave regretting something they'd both promised not to regret. He wished there was no hope, that he could be so sure of the ending that there would be no surprise. But there was.

For once, even _she_ was in denial about it, even Riza Hawkeye, who had never before allowed herself to succumb to inane sentiment or wishful thinking. Tonight, however, even _she_ gave in, commenting on how there really _was_ a good chance of the two of them surviving, when one thought about it. Suppose everything went off just as they'd planned it?

He smiled when she said that, but he didn't answer. He didn't have to. She knew as well as he did that things in battle never went the way they were planned. This time tomorrow…well…there was no need to elaborate. They both already knew. How could they not? It lurked around them, fouling the air of what should have been one final chance for them to be happy together. One final chance, after all the chances before it…

It was just that he'd gotten so used to it—that was the problem. Otherwise he'd have no trouble accepting that this was the end. But he'd gotten so _used_ to it, and now he couldn't remember how to let go…

They didn't talk much that night, although they probably should have, seeing as how it was their last night to do so. They didn't have much to say. The important things had already been said. Instead, he took it upon himself to memorize the look of each and every hair on her head. He memorized the color of her eyes (deep, rich amber) and the beauty of her smile (well worth the effort it took to coax it out.) He didn't take his eyes off her until he was sure there wasn't a detail he could forget.

Later on, when the two of them were lying side by side together in bed, they didn't jump straight to the lovemaking as he'd assumed they would. Instead, they just rested, comfortable, taking solace in the peacefulness of it all. One last fleeting moment to soak up what should have been a lifetime. Oh well…one dealt with the hand he was given, and all that bullshit.

Once again, they didn't speak about what lay ahead of them. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and in the meantime, why spoil the mood any further? Their future was too brittle—careful, say the wrong things and they might break.

Roy tried not to imagine the worst case scenario, as he rested in the quiet, but he couldn't help it. The worst case—only one of them came back to an empty apartment, and the void was never filled. Better that they both die then live through that. He tried to picture what it would be like, alone in the bed, with his arms tightening around only air, instead of Riza. He found he could not. It had been too long...

Riza dared break the silence just then to ask him what he was thinking about. He considered telling her, but in the end decided not to. How could he explain it? How could he explain that _her_ breath was _his_ lifeline—without it, he would suffocate.

Fortunately for him, he was saved from his maudlin thoughts when she rested her head against his bare chest. He in turn wrapped his arms around her, and one thing led to another, the way it always did.

Roy wouldn't let himself think about how it could very well be the last time he would ever hold her like this. After all, the night was only so long, and there was room for only so many thoughts. He'd make sure his were happy ones.

Come morning, they would most likely find themselves torn apart, but for now, they found comfort in each other's arms. Life went on…even life at the end.


	3. Selfish

_#3_

_**Selfish**_

Roy Mustang was very selfish.

He knew that. He accepted that. It wasn't something he was going to fight against, because why fight against something that can't be changed? He _was_ selfish, had always _been_ selfish, and would always _be_ selfish. It was simply his nature.

He wasn't selfish in the typical way—the many 'female admirers' who had gotten the chance to 'become acquainted with him' would all swear that he was the perfect gentleman, buying them whatever they wanted. Amongst his friends, too, he was generous with money and with advice—although _his_ was the kind of advice best left _untaken_. No, with normal things like that, he would not be considered greedy.

His selfishness showed itself in other ways.

He was known for dating a different girl each week, without regard to their feelings or sentiments. He dated merely for his own carnal enjoyment. (Although, to be faire, it wasn't as if his lady friends were exactly in the dark about his true nature.)

When at work, he would deliberately slack off until one of his subordinates (usually Havoc or Hawkeye) would have no choice but to cover for their lazy colonel and do his job for him. He knew how much extra work this gave them (especially the ever-busy Hawkeye), but he still didn't attempt to change his ways. He still lazed around instead of doing his paper work, and he still cut out early whenever he could, leaving the office even _more_ swamped and chaotic.

Whenever Hughes was around, Roy didn't hesitate to talk about whatever intrested him at the moment, but let the topic turn to Hughes's family (which it always, _always_ did) and, oh, look—you could practically _see_ Mustang's interest jumping out the window. (Again, to be faire, that never stopped Hughes, and after listening to his detailed description of Elysia's latest exploits for the fifth time, it _did_ start getting a tad old.)

Not everyone thought Roy was selfish, however. Some said he was simply extremely driven. Hawkeye, for one. But Roy himself knew better. He knew he was egocentric and prideful—he knew he was selfish. And there was one area in which he was especially greedy.

Namely, the area of Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, and all his feelings concerning her.

He got extremely grumpy when she dated other men—even though she almost _never _did—when he was dating left and right. He always made it so that she was involved in whatever he was involved in, even when it didn't really concern her. He simply, selfishly, wanted her there, no matter how much other work she had to do. If it involved Riza, he went based on what he wanted. Always.

That included her promise to stand by him and protect him. Roy was well aware of how important keeping that promise was to her. He was well aware that she considered protecting him an almost _sacred_ goal. He was well aware that she yearned to be able to fulfill her oath, both for his sake and hers. He was aware of all that. But he didn't care.

He still didn't want her to die for him.

She'd been angry—hell, downright _furious_—with him and his decision not to let her accompany him on his latest mission. His explanation that it was too dangerous only pissed her off further.

"Sir," she'd argued with him, "Sir, I made the decision to join the military in the first place knowing it would be dangerous. I won't shirk from my duties simply because of the risk!"

"Sorry, Hawkeye," he'd answered calmly. "No dice on this one."

"But _Colonel_, if the situation is especially hazardous, then I should be with you for backup!"

"I'm taking Havoc and Breida along, I'll be fine."

"Sir, I made a _promi_—"

She stopped. She never discussed her promise or the reasons behind it with him; Roy had a feeling talking about it would involve admitting feelings she wasn't ready to own up to just yet. (Not like he _was_ ready.)

"Colonel Mustang, I would…rather accompany you in a situation like this. I think it would be in everyone's best interest…"

"Forget it, Lieutenant." He shook his head. "You're staying here. That's an order, understand?"

She'd agreed- she'd had to, it was an order and she had to obey it. Didn't mean she had to like it. Her expression as she'd walked away was a study in frustration and worry. Roy, watching her leave, could only sigh. Normally, he would have demanded that she accompany him, because he always functioned better with her there. But this was different…this was a seriously dangerous situation, and he didn't want to involve her.

She was angry. She was disappointed. She was upset, not so much at him, but at herself for failing to uphold her vow of a lifetime ago. If something did happen to him on this mission, she'd never forgive herself, and Roy knew that as well as anyone. It didn't matter, though…

Although he knew what he was doing was the exact opposite of what Riza, his selfless, loyal Riza, wanted, he couldn't help it.

Roy Mustang did what he wanted. And he refused to let her endanger herself any more then she had to, because he did not want to take the risk of having to live without her. She was more then willing to die for him, he understood that—she would much rather die for him then have him die for her. Roy got all that perfectly.

But he would rather have it the other way, would rather die for _her_ then let _her_ die for _him_, even if that scenario would only cause her pain in the end. And what he wanted was what he got in this case, whether Riza agreed or no. It wasn't that he didn't care about her feelings…

It was just that he couldn't stand the idea of losing her, couldn't stand the idea of having to live life without her there. It was his desires against hers, and, at least in this case, he did what he wanted.

He was, after all, very selfish.


	4. To Remember

#4

_**To Remember **_

Roy stares at the picture in his hands, and wonders when the last time was that he was truly, honestly happy. Or, to be more exact, he wonders if he was ever happy to begin with. Looking back, he supposed he must have been, once.

Once, long ago, before he joined the military, before Ishbal, before his best friend was cut down in the dead of night because he Knew Too Much.

(A cardinal sin, knowing too much. Since Hughes's murder, Roy has taken to reading murder-mysteries with an almost fanatical passion, and he has found that in most of them, the victim was killed because he Knew Too Much. Knowledge really is deadly—maybe it would be better if they were all dumb.)

Now, though, happiness has been erased from his life so completely, that he is beginning to forget what it felt like. He sits sometimes, late at night, with that same picture in his hands, and tries to remember. He likes that picture because it is one of the few in which the emotions captured in it are not fake. Him and Hughes, grinning, still young, still new to the military, still believing themselves to be heroes. Or at least, Roy believed that. Hughes was never the kind of guy to put that much pride in himself. The picture is not forced or posed, like so many others, and so he spends most of his darkened evenings staring at it, trying to recall what he was thinking at the time that could put such a pure smile on his face. But it's never any good. He can't remember, no matter how hard he wants to.

And then there are the times when he seeks the temporary happiness a bottle of scotch will bring, savoring its sharp descent down his throat. But that happiness is a cheap imitation, and seldom lasts very long. If only he could remember what happiness was really like…

(He's secretly envious of Hughes, because Hughes knew—had always known—what real joy felt like, and now that he's dead the secret has been buried with him in the grave. This isn't very fair, Roy often thinks, and he wishes he had thought to ask before. Hindsight can be almost as deadly as knowledge.)

It's all quite useless, Roy finally decides—the best thing to do now would be to snap his fingers, remove that picture and all its teasing remnants from his mind. He is about to do just that when the door to his office opens, and First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye walks in.

(Riza Hawkeye, his most loyal of subordinates, there since the early days of sand and grit and spilled blood. She is in as deeply as Hughes ever was, and sometimes Roy wants to scream at her, don't stay, don't stand by me, get out before they take you too. He does not think he could stand to see her blood spilled the way Hughes's was, grotesque stains drizzled out across the phone booth. It is because of this fear that he has yet to admit to his real feelings for her, because he is afraid that would drag her in deeper. A foolish fear. Riza Hawkeye would not leave even if he told her to, and if he was so dumb as to give voice to his trepidations, she would reply simply that it is her choice to make.)

Roy is surprised to see her there—it is late, and he had assumed he was the only one left in the building. Apparently not. Riza, sensing the problem even if she cannot see the empty liquor bottle at his feet from her angle, walks over to him. Her hand on his shoulder is light, the faintest of sensations.

"It's late, sir," she says quietly. "You should go home."

"Aah, yes, I was…I was just about to do that. You too, though, Lieutenant, you head home too, ok?"

"Yes sir," is her only response. She does not inquire into what exactly he is doing there, so late at night, with the lights turned off and naught but alcohol and a creased photograph to keep him company. She does not have to, and anyway, she understands that he doesn't want to talk about it. She understands his fear of questions that might pry too closely, dig too deep.

He gets to his feet, a bit shakily, and follows her out the door. He's glad she found him—in a way, he was hoping she would. Even if he can't tell her how he really feels, he likes to think that she understands about that too.

"Mind if I walk you home, Lieutenant?"

"S-Sir, you really don't have to—"

"So? I still want to."

"Very well, Colonel…"

(There is a reason why he doesn't tell her to abandon him the way he sometimes thinks he should. Roy has forgotten what it's like to feel happy, but when he's around Riza, he comes pretty close to remembering. One of these days, he figures, as long as she's there, it'll come back to him once and for all.)

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AN 9/23/10- Oh, emo!Roy. My teenage self had such a fascination with you.


	5. Perversion

AN- An english assignment gone fanficish.  
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#5

_**Perversion**_

He had never wanted it to turn out this way.

Standing in the center of that small room, fingers clutched tremblingly around the gun in his hands, he wondered, dazed, how it had happened at all.

His intentions had been good enough at the outbreak—he'd been a new recruit, young, filled with pretty images of heroics and brave deeds.

_(He should have known that any images that could be described as pretty did not belong attached with war. But he didn't, and that was half of the problem right there.)_

The war had been at its infancy when he first joined the military. Having, due to his talents, been given the rank of Major so much faster then the typical soldier, he allowed the new-found fame (he was so young, one of the youngest men to hold that rank in nearly twenty years) to go right to his head.

_(People assumed that he'd always been the cocky jerk he later became, but in truth, that side of his persona started and died with the war. Before, he was too wide-eyed and naive for it to be true; afterwards, he was too haunted. The self-importance was an act.)_

But, while both he and the war were new, he led himself to believe that he was a hero. He was a shining example of that mystical concept of good deeds and glory. He was fighting a just and noble cause—that's why he had even joined the military in the first place. True, he would have to kill people, but that was war, and that was the way war worked. Besides, he was doing it for a good reason—he was going to help people, make their lives better. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few; some would die, but more would live, and they would live in a much better world, too.

That was his mindset leading up to his first battle.

It was not his mindset coming back.

He had been wrong, wrong wrong _wrong_, and he was only just seeing it. His illusions of bravery, his audacity to declare himself a hero—they were nothing but obvious lies and glaring misconceptions, now. He was such a fool.

Was it all his fault, though? Surely he was not the only foolish young man to go to war thinking it was something it wasn't, never had been, never would be. After all, he'd listened in to (and on occasion, joined) the conversations taking place around him on the train heading towards the front lines—everyone had been so excited, so willing, so sure they'd be making a name for themselves there. There had been other new recruits like him, talking about how they would bring enlightenment to these backwards people, how they would fix what was breaking, how this was the start of something great. No…he had not been the only one deluded in such a manner. There had been others.

_(There were others before him, and there would be others after him, and every new batch would come blind and come back ruined, complaining—after having ignored all the warning signs, all the empty stares and bitter laughs of the veterans who had already been there a while—that they were deceived. They wanted their visions of valor back. They forgot that valor is not found in the definition of war.)_

No, in all honesty, the problem did not rest solely on the soldiers who created it. They, of course, bared a large part of the blame, but what could they do against military leaders who lied about the purpose of the fighting, other soldiers who rejoiced in the spilling of blood, dreams of honor that turned out to be fake? Most of them had not joined the military wanting to be the bad guy in the history books. He hadn't, at least.

He had joined to help. So why was he hurting?

It was the war's fault, he thought now, carefully averting his eyes from the red stain at his feet so that he could pretend it wasn't there just a little bit longer. It was the war's fault, because no one had ever told him (not before he joined the military, anyway; they waited till afterwards, when there was nothing he could do regardless.) that what he was fighting was not, in fact, war at all.

It was genocide.

What other name was there for a conflict which involved the absolute and complete destruction of entire city blocks? What other word was there for a conflict which deemed the elderly and very young as acceptable targets? If the war was being fought to 'help the people', as was the line the military leaders fed their troops, then why was the main goal of the military to wipe out an entire race? Who would be left to help afterwards? The faulty logic was staggering.

He had been prepared for war. He hadn't been prepared for mass murder.

He fell back against the wall, still shaking. He wanted to ignore what he had just done, he wanted to believe that there was no way he could have just killed two doctors. On order, no less! He wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

_(He wanted a lot of things. He got very few.)_

He swallowed hard, feeling sick. This was…not right. This was not how things were supposed to be. He'd gone there wanting to be a hero, and had wound up sinking so low as to be a very perversion of nature. And that wasn't even the worst part…

There had been one part to his childish daydreams of before that had come true, in a sense. He'd dreamt of fulfilling the legend and finding true love along the way, and in a sense, he had. There was a girl, a beautiful sharpshooter with stern amber eyes and a warm smile she very rarely used, that had caught his attention almost from day one. He found himself determined to drag that smile out. Being something of a ladies man himself, he had been planning on asking her as soon as the time was right.

The time would never be right now. He wouldn't risk it. He knew if he tried, he'd only end up ruining her too. He'd already destroyed himself. He would not risk destroying her. One perversion of nature was bad enough.


	6. The Blind Leading the Blind

#6

**_The Blind Leading the Blind_**

Though she is no stronger then he, Roy leans on her constantly for support, and she is having trouble keeping her balance. It is irony at its deadliest, and she hates it.

Every day is a new nightmare—every second threatens. With every breath, she can feel hot ash slide down her throat until she wants to dunk her head under water just to remove the painful aftertaste. Only there are no bodies of water here—no lakes, no streams, no large crystal ponds shinning in the sun like back home—and even if there were, by now they would be contaminated with smoke and dust, a bitter reminder of a time when the world wasn't mad.

She has discovered that she hates fire. Loathes it, actually. Loathes it with a vehemence that surprises even her. (She has, after all, prided herself for knowing her mind quite well. And yet here is a new development.) Surprising or not, though, the fact remains. She hates fire.

She hates the violent heat it belches, the way it sends thick clouds of smoke up to tarnish the once-brilliant sky. She hates how the bodies roast, how they smell—like so much meat being cooked over a spit. She hates how, when all is said and done, she can't quite tell if the charred lump of flesh at her feet is a human or some desert animal that got in the way.

She has killed her fair share of men, of course—

(and not just men, but women and children as well, and the knowledge of the act swarms her thinking daily. It is not guilt, what she feels, because guilt is such an inoffensive word, not neatly strong enough to relate)

-but somehow, being felled by a bullet doesn't seem as bad a way to die as burning does. It is quicker, anyway, and that in itself is a small comfort. But to burn is to be aware, in agony, for a lifetime of minutes, until all that's left is a pile of black dirt and the sick-sweet smell of the skies burning.

No, she is no fan of fire, no fan of the way it rips through the streets and smolders night and day, no fan of how, when she closes her eyes, she can still see it, an ever-present red glow. It's uncontrollable, and she likes to have things under control. It can flare up in an instant without warning, and she still stubbornly clings to her human desire for fair-play. It's merciless—if you get caught in it, your death will be agonizing, always—whereas she knows how to shoot someone so that they feel nothing as they fall. (So she has been told, but how does she really know if that's true?)

Fire. Ishbal. The two are eternally enmeshed, inseparable. She doesn't want the memories. Fire brings them back, every time. She cannot stand it.

More irony—she hates fire, but she loves the man who welds it.

It's true, she loves the Flame Alchemist, who is in his own right both stunningly strong and wincingly weak. She knows that, by all rights, she should not feel the way she does about the man who controls—as much as possible, but fire refuses to be led, in the end—the element she dislikes the most. But knowing is not the same as doing, and she bows down to her feelings for Roy Mustang, because to fight them would be so hard, and she is so tired. She doesn't think she has the strength.

And, anyway, maybe it does make sense, in a way, that she should love him. After all, he hates fire as much as she does. Strange indeed, that a man should loath the very thing that makes him famous, that gives him his place in the world, but he does. She of all people should know, because it is she who comforts him each night.

Each day, he goes about his job—a snap and a flare and a shrill chorus of screams. And each day, he is unmovable, stone, watching his victims burn alive without the slightest hint of remorse. She refuses to look in his eyes during the day, because she is afraid—yes, _her,_ courageous and brave, is afraid—to look and see the cold, hard, black diamonds that glitter out unseeingly at the world. Each day, it is as if he takes some part of him—the part that makes him human—and hides it, away from view. Each day, he is not Roy Mustang, but someone else, and it scares her. If that was how he always was, she would withdraw from him, afraid of contamination.

But that is how he is during the day. That is not how he is during the night, and it is at night that he comes to her.

At night…he comes to her tent at night, shivering, eyes wild and desperate, body shuddering with unspent tears, voice cracking with silent grief. He comes to her, scared and alone and confused, his manner dazed, as if he cannot quite understand how he could do such a thing, again, after a night spent swearing he wouldn't, that tomorrow he would take a stand.

"You must think I'm a monster," he whispers, voice ragged, as she draws her arms around him to try and comfort him, to try and starve off the trembling fear lancing onto his body. "I know how horrible it is, what I'm doing, and I keep doing it, again and again. I'm not strong enough to stop this. You must think…"

And here she stops him with a soft sentence or two, because what she thinks is not important, and anyway, she is not sure he could ever understand it if she told him she could never consider him a monster.

Because she can't.

Every night, she does her best to comfort and advise; to listen as he begs forgiveness and swears that one day, he'll atone for his sins. One day.

Interestingly enough, only she knows the right words to say, the words that will calm him down instead of damaging him further. He tells her so, each night, as he rests his head on her shoulder in dead exhaustion. She accepts this silently, as a sign—of what, she isn't sure. All she knows is that she is the one who enables him to return to the battlefield each day a different man, one who is able to cast aside his doubts and become the statue she so loathes. She finds that to be a bitter paradox, but still she allows him to come creeping to her in the darkest hours, because what else could she do? She will never be able to turn him away, she knows this as well as anything else. She must draw close to Roy when he comes, and deal with the distance each brightly empty day brings.

It annoys her—scares her—that he should even turn to her for comfort, when she is so sorely in need of it herself. He is not the only one suffering—she too has her demons, her shattered conscience. And, unlike him, she doesn't know where to turn for relief—she is not the kind of person who just tells her troubles to anyone with ears, and the only one she would ever consider—Roy—is too busy drowning in his own turmoil to help shoulder hers. She does not blame him for this; how can she? She has never asked. She knows that if she did, he would instantly insist on helping her as she helps him. And she also knows that if he did so, he wouldn't be able to continue on. He is too overwhelmed already, though he will never admit it, not even at night.

Does that make her stronger then he is? She doesn't think so. Either way, it won't change a thing. She will still wait for him each night, leading and trying to help, when in reality she has no idea where she is going. She is only a soldier like he is, nothing more—she can't see the path, can't clear away the weeds that hide it. But she pretends she can, because Roy needs her to, and she won't ever let him fall. Even if she falls in the process.

Sometimes, she wonders if what she doing is right—helping a man when she is so desperately in need of help herself; aiding someone who deals the type of death she hates the most. But then he comes, lost, and she puts her thoughts aside and goes to save him. Wherever the two of them wind up in the end, they will wind up there together—Riza is sure of that, if nothing else.


	7. After, Like A Dream

AN- Oh look, my awkward teenage self was trying to write sex convincingly. Oh dear.  
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* * *

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**#7**

**After, Like A Dream**

Even better then the sex itself was what came after.

The lovemaking was great, of course—two bodies intertwined around each other in escalating passion, sweat dripping as they clutched at each other for dear life. Riza never quite gave up her self-control completely, even at the climax of everything—her voice when she moaned Roy's name was always soft. On the other hand, Roy lost himself completely in her, gasping at the force of something that never failed to leave him breathless. In terms of sex, he was the more 'accomplished' of the two, having gone out with just about every pretty young thing the city had to offer at one point or another, but even Roy Mustang was stunned at the raw power the two of them had together, as one. It was amazing.

But, as wonderful as the act was, the aftermath easily eclipsed it.

After it was all said and done, the two lay quietly in each other's arms, enjoying the easy peace that was so rare when one was in the military. Riza rested her head against him, relishing in the contact. Roy's fingers drifted over her stomach, tracing gentle patterns against her smooth flesh. He breathed in her scent, wondering how anyone so perfect would even allow him to get this close. Interestingly enough, Riza was thinking more or less the same thing.

"Riza." His voice was low, and still a bit out of breath from their previous exploits. "You don't have to stay, you know."

"At the moment, I do," she answered him lightly, running her fingers through his messy black hair the way she'd longed to for so many years. "I can't exactly get up while you're holding me."

"I'm serious," he told her, and she looked up at him in surprise. "If you don't want to…I don't want you to think you have to stay with me, Riza. If you change your mind, that's fine, we'll just call it a mistake and move on."

(His actions as he spoke did not match his words at all; even as he spoke, he tightened his arms around her, as if in mortal fear that she would agree that it was all an accident and leave. He didn't think he could handle that if it happened.)

"A mistake…?" Riza sighed slightly. Amazing how uncertain, how doubtful, her colonel could be. "Roy…if I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be."

He nodded slowly, accepting the fact that to her was so obvious. "It's just….sometimes, it doesn't seem real to me, that's all. Like a dream."

Like a dream…Riza was quiet as he yawned and closed his eyes, head nuzzled against her. Like a dream…_But it **is** a dream, Roy, because nothing like this could ever happen in real life._ He didn't seem to notice how hard it was for her to accept it herself.

Which is why she loved these moments after so much. It gave her a chance to remind herself that what they had _was,_ in fact, real. It was so hard, having to tear herself away from him every morning while he was still fast asleep, so that she could reach Headquarters before him and alleviate any suspicion. It was so hard, having to pretend during the day that he was just her superior, and nothing more. She yearned for the day when he would become president and remove that damn no fraternization law from the books. But, until that day came, she would have to be content with these painfully rare moments when she could lie beside him and pretend, if only for a moment, that they were just an ordinary couple…

Roy shifted beside her, mumbling something in his sleep. He was surprisingly vocal in his dreams, and Riza had become adept at sensing when the simple dream would start to turn south, becoming something far darker. She always moved quickly to wake him up when his dreams took on a more sinister tone, because she knew how much he suffered from them. They plagued him relentlessly, and it hurt to see him the next morning, in the office, with black circles underneath his eyes and an open container of booze already sitting beside him on the desk. He never looked at her on those mornings, when she arrived; he averted his eyes, as if ashamed that he had given in.

It didn't seem as if whatever he was currently dreaming was a nightmare, though, so she relaxed against him and closed her eyes. Tomorrow promised to be a busy day, as always, so she knew she needed her sleep. Tomorrow…her mouth twisted into a frown at the thought. Tomorrow, when she would have to once again support their little façade. Tomorrow, when the night's joys had all but faded, nothing but a dim memory in her mind, faint traces of pleasures beyond compare. Tomorrow, when she would have to somehow keep her sanity while playing the latest round of the game, like Russian Roulette—pressing the trigger again and again, one way or another dodging the bullets, until the day came when their luck ran out and they were caught. Caught taking place in such a _heinous_ crime.

It was hard, in looking back, to believe that their relationship was _anything but_ a dream. _He loves me_, Riza would tell herself, but the simple fact was never enough to convince her. _He loves me, and just last night we were together, in his bed_…but were they, really? Could she be so sure that it hadn't just been some dream of hers mistaken for reality? In times like these, Riza would glance over at Roy, but the knowledge that he was suffering in the same way rarely helped any.

Riza sometimes wondered if it wouldn't simply be easier to give up and move on, to try and forget his mischievous smile and the way his hands would tremble ever-so-slightly as he made love to her. She never came to any sort of conclusion, however, other then to simply throw herself full on into the dream, to hold tighter when she had the chance, and, most of all, to pray that she would never wake up.


	8. A Million Pieces of Nothing

#8

_**A Million Pieces of Nothing**_

For some strange reason, the first thing that came to Riza Hawkeye's mind as she stood there was that the cause of the unusual noises issuing from her superior officer's apartment might be burglars. She knew how stupid it would be for robbers to break into _his_ apartment, of all places, and she also knew what those noises really sounded like, but still. Thinking that it was burglars was better, _safer,_ for her, because she didn't believe that her colonel was that troubled.

…At least, she didn't want to believe it.

It wasn't like she even knew what she was doing here in the first place. What on earth had prompted her to walk all the way across town, find his apartment, gently rap on the door-so lightly he _couldn't_ have actually heard her-and then just _stand_ there, lacking the nerve to knock loud enough for there to be a point?

Her mind unsettled, she turned to go, cursing herself for being this impulsive, when the noise came again, softly pouring from behind the door. Heart now racing, she knocked again, firmly, loud enough for him to hear.

There was no answer.

* * *

Roy Mustang had always assumed that, in order for this to happen, there had to be some kind of terrible event, some final straw to break the camel's back. But really, at least in this case, there hadn't been anything out of the ordinary at all. He hadn't come running home in desperation, no breaking point of his had been trampled on—hell, he hadn't even written a note. It had just been a typical day.

He'd avoided his paperwork, the never-ending drudgery of signing forms he couldn't care less about. It didn't matter if the crud ever truly got filled out or not, because in reality, it really wasn't important, just something the military gave to its pets to keep them busy when there was no one 'undesirable' around for them to murder.

He'd been chewed out at one point by his higher-ups, over his 'attitude'…supposedly, word had gotten around that he wasn't the most loyal dog in the pack. Whatever. In the end, they'd let him off with a warning and a 'shape up while you still can', so it really didn't matter.

Then the work day had ended, and he'd gone home.

And that was it.

There was no turning point, nothing to push him Over The Edge, as it were. There was just…nothing. And maybe that was the problem. Roy Mustang was _tired _of nothing.

What was his life _about,_ really? What was the _point_? He knew that if anyone else was ever made aware of these feelings of his—and none ever would be—they'd call him depressed, but he _wasn't_. He wasn't sad, or lonely, or unhappy…not really. He wasn't even angry anymore.

He'd been angry for years and years—at himself, mostly. Angry about Ishbal. Angry about the government that could condone such a bloodbath. Angry at himself for having taken part in said bloodbath. Angry.

And that fury built up, year after year, a swirling miasma of hatred, until Roy could almost _feel_ the thick blackness coiled in the pit of his stomach. It was exhausting, spending every day like that, wired on pins and needles, and he began to crave a break from it all, even just for a spare moment or two.

He wasn't sure when his wish had been granted; he couldn't remember ever waking up and feeling any different. All he knew these days was that he didn't feel angry anymore—didn't feel _anything_ anymore.

And he was still so tired.

So here was Roy Mustang, in his dusty apartment, in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection absently. His eyes were bloodshot, he noted, and his hair could use a washing or three. He really was letting his good looks go to hell….huh. Oh well.

He yawned. He was always yawning, these days, always rubbing his eyes. His first lieutenant, Riza Hawkeye, who was perhaps his most loyal subordinate of all, had noticed, of course, suggesting that maybe he needed to get more sleep at night. Knowing from experience that his lieutenant's advice was always worth taking, he tried going to sleep earlier one evening.

All it did was give his nightmares a chance to grow more detailed.

Now he could actually _see_ the shine blood took as it spilled from a red-eyed Ishbalan—he could smell the acrid smoke-filled air, could taste the fat in the air from all the roasting human flesh, could hear the screams with a brutal clarity that sapped his strength clear away.

He awoke trembling.

After that disastrous attempt, he reverted back to his usual tired existence…not life, per se, but _existence_. And that was fine, he told himself. That was enough. He was _existing_. So be it.

Quite without realizing it, his hand reached out and opened the medicine cabinet, took down a plethora of half-filled pill bottles and Aspirin containers. Carrying them all into the kitchen, he rummaged around until he found a glass. The next stop was the fridge, and the bottle of booze that was sitting patiently, waiting. Mixing the alcohol with the pills took only moments.

Still without having thought this through in any way, shape or form, he wandered back into the living room. Rain was lashing against the windows; his reflection in the water-beaten glass was distorted and broken. He raised the deadly concoction in his hands—the pills having dissolved into one big poisonous lump—in mock salute, then brought the cup to his lips to take a swig—

There was a soft knock at his door, and he froze, stood waiting, stood listening.

Nothing.

Chalking it up to his imagination, his fingers—the ones not currently wrapped around the glass—found the neck of the now-empty alcohol bottle. He lifted the bottle into the air, and then brought it back down, flinging it against the hardwood floor underneath his feet. It shattered instantly into a million pieces. He smiled.

Wouldn't it be nice if he could shatter like that, too?

There was movement out in the hallway, but he paid it no mind, going back to sloshing his drink around instead. His liquid remedy…his elixir of death.

On accident, he stepped on one of the larger pieces of glass, and it cracked underneath the heel of his boot. The knocking came again, louder. He ignored it.

The glass was back at his lips…

* * *

Riza stood hesitantly by the door. Roy obviously wasn't going to open up, so maybe she should just go home…

The minute she turned away, her sixth sense screamed. That did it. She turned back, steadied herself—and let loose with a furious kick to that damn door.

* * *

To say Roy was startled when First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye kicked his door open would have been the understatement of the century. He was so surprised, he forgot to be angry at this intrusion, and instead stood there like an idiot, mouth agape.

Riza took a single second to survey the scene, the smashed liquor bottle and the empty pill containers on the counter, before—moving with a speed Roy had previously thought superhuman—she was in front of him, knocking the glass out of his hand.

"What are you doing?"

No 'sir', no 'Colonel'. Just, 'what are you doing,' and a furious glare. Roy felt uncharacteristically nervous. Riza wasn't the kind of person he liked to tick off.

"Nothing, I was just…" He faltered and fell silent. He couldn't lie to her—for whatever reason, he just couldn't. Besides, he was sure that any moment now, Riza would begin to chew him out, and that would be that.

Except she didn't.

She just stood there, with a worried look on her face…..no, not worry, her expression eclipsed worry…it was disappointment. Riza Hawkeye was disappointed in him.

That hurt. That hurt a lot.

"Listen, Hawkeye, I wasn't…"

"Why, sir?"

Her question caught him unaware. "…Why what?"

"Why would you give up on all you've worked for like this?" Her voice was so soft. "Why would you give up on all _we've_ worked for?"

"'All we've worked for.'" He spit the words out with venom, kicking at the many shards of glass at his feet. "What have we worked for? A goddamn pipe-dream. It's all been _worthless_!"

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and could have kicked himself. What was he saying? It hadn't _all_ been worthless. _She_ hadn't been worthless. But how was he supposed to tell her that…?

"I see…" Riza said, her voice devoid of any and all emotion. "I see." She turned to go, but he grabbed her arm before she could.

"Hawkeye, uh…look, it wasn't…I didn't mean…" He sighed. "I just…I don't know what's wrong with me these days. I don't…ever feel anything…it's like I'm just _here_, just _drifting_. There's nothing…"

Although he'd believed in that sentence for months now, when he said it aloud there seemed to be something noticeably wrong with it. But there _was_ nothing, wasn't there?

"Sir…"

There was Riza.

On a sudden impulse, he pulled her closer to him. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she became rigid in his grasp…but she made no move to back away, either. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again. I promise."

"You promise," she repeated dully.

"Yeah." His voice rose. "I promise!"

"With all due respect, sir," and she pried herself loose from his grasp, "you will."

"I won't! I said I won't!"

"I'm sorry, Colonel…but we both know that's not the truth. Today, tomorrow, three weeks from now…sooner or later, you will." Her voice was flat, empty. Her words stung. At least he was feeling pain now.

Better then nothing at all, right?

"Riza…" His voice broke. "I….I don't _want_ to."

Her eyes widened—this _emotion_, pouring from the colonel…it was like a dam had burst, she was being flooded…

"I don't want to, damn it! I don't want to!"

There was rage, there was surprise, there was stubbornness…there were emotions. And there was Riza.

"I don't want to…I really…really…don't want to…"

Riza licked her too-dry lips, struggled to get a coherent sentence out. "I-I…I know." Suddenly, she did. In the space of five minutes, her world had been turned upside-down, and then righted again…

"I don't want to…" Roy was repeating that to himself by now, sinking down to sit amongst the sopping glass slivers. "I don't want to. I don't." He looked up at Hawkeye, who looked semi-shell-shocked. "I won't."

"I…I know, sir. Just…promise you'll tell one of us next time?"

What she didn't say, what she wanted to say, what she really said: promise you'll come to me?

He nodded.

"I promise."

* * *

Roy stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around himself. His hair stuck up in all directions, water dripping down the back of his neck. The mirror was completely fogged up; he couldn't have seen his reflection had he wanted to. When he opened the bathroom door, a wave of steam escaped with him. It had been a long shower.

Traipsing into the kitchen, he was hit by a sudden fear that Riza might have already left—but no, there she was, standing over his stove. The smell of freshly-cooked bacon hit his nose, and he inhaled deeply.

"Mmm. Smells good."

Riza jumped when she heard his voice, and when she turned around and saw her commanding officer in nothing but a towel, well…

"S-Sir!"

Roy smiled at her embarrassment, and walked over to her. Sliding his arms around her waist, he felt her stiffen again in his arms.

"S-Sir, we really can't—"

"Glad you stopped by," he whispered. And he really was. "It's a good thing you did."

Riza found this display endearing in some strange way—to put it quite frankly, she wasn't sure whether to hug him, or hit him over the head with the frying pan.

Roy felt oddly _whole_, in a way he hadn't felt for a long, long time. He felt…full. His mind wandered back to the broken glass that Riza had helped him clear the living room of before. Picking up all those shards, Roy'd felt as if they were piecing together some weird puzzle…finding just the right combination that would fix what was broken. A million pieces of nothing coming together again…

That's when he realized that Riza was no longer standing so stiff in his arms. Her mahogany eyes were staring straight at him. A bit uncertainly, he allowed his lips to find hers. When she didn't resist, he pressed down harder.

There was a rush of all sorts of emotions….passion, desire, want, need. Love. Everything fitting together.

Perhaps the fact that Roy Mustang was feeling anything at all was what made it so complete.

* * *

AN- Wow, this is a ooc nightmare. Holy crapola.


	9. Ethereality

#9

_**Ethereality**_

_Ethereality—N.— Characterized by insubstantiality; not of this world._

It wasn't often that they were able to meet, in that place—the alchemists were supposed to keep to their own section of the encampment when not out fighting red-eyed apparitions. Roy would look for excuses, reasons to go over to her area, but he was wary of using them. Fraternization between soldiers was no more accepted here in Ishbal then back home. Home…

_(Sometimes Roy felt that'd he'd merely imagined Central, perhaps hallucinated it up at one point or another. A concept as strange as 'home' could never actually exist. It was during these moments that he was certain he'd been born into this burning, raging land, born here on the battlefield, and that he'd never leave it, that he would one day die, drop amongst all the other corpses, and be forgotten.)_

As it turned out this time around, he'd only been able to see her once this past month, and even then for only a spare second. He'd been heading into camp, she'd been heading out, and when she saw him, she gave a quick nod before continuing past. There'd been no chance for words, and lately Roy found himself missing her voice.

* * *

The end of the month brought with it a fierce sandstorm, a whirling torrent of sand and grit that stung the eyes and made the throat dry enough to rival sandpaper. Dirt got everywhere, clogged everything—guns, tents, ears, noses. In order to take a simple drink of water, one first had to drain it several times to get out the impurities, and even then you crunched more then swallowed the tepid liquid. It continued like this for several long and dismal days, days that were as dark as night, while the brutal heat endlessly scorched. The warmth of the sun, seemingly magnified in all the dirt, baked down upon the soldiers, while the loose earth was pulled from underneath their feet and tossed around in giant clumps. The storm dragged on and on, and although no one would admit it, they were all starting to wonder if there would ever be a respite from the sand…

And then, after three soldiers had already been smothered to death by the violent gale, something happened. The storm…changed.

It started on the fourth evening of the mess—suddenly, the entire world was plunged, day and night, into a golden-brown miasma, a thick swirling fog. The colorations were almost ethereal in their haunted beauty, with the hard grit being temporarily replaced with a soft, floating powder. Grey shadows lingered, tantalizing—while searching for a fellow soldier, one might reach out their hands to touch one of these ghostly figures, only to watch it disappear into the endless unearthly, delicate mists. Everything was hidden; the sharp lines of reality were blurred, smoothed out a bit. It was like some distant dream…there were no missions, visibility was too poor, so the soldiers sat around and watched the sand blow. It became some other world…

To Roy, it was a much-needed break—a bit of peace injected into the chaos. It was like the clock had been stopped, if only for a minute—one brief moment in which he could try and catch his breath. Oh, how he'd love to be able to drag that moment out for endless hours…

Peace in a sandstorm might not make any sense to anyone else—

_(The change from a roaring tempest to a hovering cloud ultimately killed three more men—men who lied down to sleep and failed to notice that they were slowly being blanketed by dust. The soft, deep powder did not scratch and burn when it fell, as did its gritty counterpart, but gently drifted, covering a person up, blocking his nose and mouth until all he could breathe was sand.)_

-but nevertheless, Roy still began to wish, half-madly, that the storm might never end.

* * *

He is sitting cross-legged in his tent, on the floor, watching as grime seeps in from the closed tent flaps and wafts through the musty air. Even though it is late afternoon, and so unbearably hot, the sandstorm-darkened sky is only a muddy grey color, hiding the sun. Roy is grateful for that.

One of the flaps opens, and _she_ walks in. His breath catches in his throat; he wonders for a second if this isn't simply another dream-another vision created by dust.

But, no—she smiles at him, a grave upwards quirking of the lips. It had taken a while for Roy to realize that _was_ a smile—as of yet, he is still the only one who's figured it out.

"Good afternoon, sir," she says quietly, and he grimaces.

"Please, Hawkeye, no titles. I barely outrank you anyway."

Riza shrugs and lowers herself beside him. There's silence for a while, a comfortable pause.

"…This is a hell of a storm, huh?" It's an awkward attempt at best to start a conversation, but Riza doesn't seem to notice Roy's sudden fumbling for words.

"It should end soon. These desert storms never last long."

"_Nothing_ lasts long out here," Roy informs her. "Absolutely nothing."

She eyes him. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. Hell, look around you. Ishbal, this great, beautiful city, built for the sole purpose of worshiping an outdated god, is in ruins," he points out morosely. "The Ishbalans obviously thought when they constructed it that it would last forever…and now look what happened. It's been destroyed. By _us_. There's barely a building left standing by now."

"No one can predict the future," Riza says. "Ishbal might not be gone for good. Perhaps, once this is all over…"-and she gestures around them, indicating the sand-swept desert, and the dim outlines of glum soldiers, and the ruins of a land savaged by war- "Maybe someday, Ishbal and its people will rise again."

Roy laughs. There is no humor in the sound. "Since when are you such an optimist?"

She frowns, and her eyes flash. She doesn't say anything—she doesn't need to. Roy gets the message loud and clear.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He shakes his head, and looks down, absently beginning to trace patterns in the sand at his feet. "It's just…everything in this godforsaken place's been destroyed. Ishbal, the Ishbalans…hell, even a lot of the soldiers on our side. There one minute, and next thing you know, they're dead. And let's not forget the ones who _survive_," he adds darkly. "Some of these people are so twisted…it's like their humanity was blown away too. Just look at Kimbly."

Riza bristles at the mention of the Crimson Alchemist's name. "I find it extremely hard to believe Kimbly was ever human to begin with," she mutters dryly.

"Yeah, good point." Roy leans back, looking up at nothing, at the dust-choked air. "Seriously though…sooner or later, this stupid place wears everything down." He sighs softly. "Nothing ever lasts…"

Riza's hand finds his; he looks over at her and finds himself staring into her red-brown eyes.

"Some things last." She tightens her grip. Her eyes shine with fierce determination. "We will."

Roy looks back down at their entwined hands. He's used to it by now, accustomed to it; it's as if they'd been as close as this for years…for all eternity. But when had their relationship started, really? When was the first time she'd caught his eye as she'd walked by? When was the first time she'd spoken to him, the first time he told her how beautiful she was, the first time he'd kissed her? Hadn't it been only a few months ago, here in this damn desert?

He sighs a second time, heavily. "I don't know…"

She looks at him, surprised. That was not the answer she'd expected to hear. After all, isn't he the one who often promises her that he'll never let anything come between them?

"I don't know if we can really pull this off, Hawkeye."

"Why?" she asks lightly, hoping to get back onto familiar ground. "Are you planning on going to the higher-ups about our relationship any time soon?"

Roy gives that mirthless laugh again. He looks at his hands—the fingers of his white alchemist's gloves are stained brown with sand. "It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"It's…" He shakes his head once more, unable to really put into words what he means. "I guess it's because of this goddamn desert, how everything here just gets worn away. Nothing's permanent. Nothing stays." _Everything is fleeting, so fleeting, blink and you miss it, get used to it and then it's gone._ "And lately…" His voice trails off.

Riza frowns. "And lately what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

The expression on Riza's face makes it obvious that she wants to argue with him, but she refrains. Lately, Roy has become very quiet, even around her, and she doesn't want to pry. When he is ready, he'll come to her—Riza hopes that's how it'll work, anyway.

In fact, although she doesn't know it, Roy is mulling over just telling her even as they sit there in silence. Why not? What was so terrible about mentioning the dreams he'd been having lately, or the fears that had come to nest deeply in his heart? Surely a woman like her would understand.

Yes…she'd understand, she'd understand perfectly—which is why Roy doesn't want to tell her. He'd rather believe that he is just being paranoid; the only other option is that his fears are so rooted in reality…they might just come true.

Could Roy survive that if it happened? He certainly doesn't think so.

How is he supposed to handle it if what he is secretly dreading actually occurs? What would he do the day he attempted to wake himself from a nightmare, only to find that it was real? Those dreams…

_It is hot and it is Ishbal but Roy doesn't care because Riza is there, in his arms, and he is clutching at her for dear life because without her, the waves would pitch him over—without her, he would drown. But she is there and she is safe and she looks up at him and smiles, and his heat constricts. God, how he loves her…someone calls his name and he turns; no one's behind him, just the endless burning city streets. Burning—because of him, burning. And there are corpses everywhere, some hideously mangled, others little more then heaps of charred ash. A scream builds up in his throat, blistering—raw—although he wants to, he doesn't turn his eyes, because this is all his doing, all his work. The work of the Devil through his hands—it seems as if his eyes are rooted to the spot, melted onto the violent scenery so that he can never look anywhere else…he is forced to watch the outcome of what he's done. Finally, he rips his head away from the dismal carnage-his heart is throbbing painfully somewhere near his throat. He turns back, desperately, for Riza—she is the only one who can erase the vision, make this all ok. No matter what has happened or what he's done, she is there, she is hope. He turns, expecting to see her in his arms, like she was a second ago. _

_She isn't there._

_His arms are empty, covered in sand, like a dead body buried and then dug up again…his stomach dives—the streets are filled with blood in either direction—he's drowning, drowning, can't fight the current or fight the odds—she is gone—because of him, because of this horror caused by his blood-encrusted flames—he has lost her…_

"Roy?"

He looks up, startled. Riza is looking at him, brows furrowed in worry.

"Are you all right? You seemed…pensive, just now."

"No. I'm fine." He deliberately turns from her questioning eyes. He has always felt that she could see right through him with that intense gaze of hers, and he doesn't feel like being picked apart right now.

Because the idea scares him.

The idea that there is still something he could do, some crime so heinous that even his recent acts of destruction—all the burning buildings and dead bodies at his feet—would look like mere _child's play_, scares the shit out of him. Something so horrible, it would be the end of them…

Roy knows that there is nothing he could ever do that would cause Riza to leave him willingly. Perhaps if he cheated on her…but Roy never will, and she understands that. No, he is not afraid of her leaving him…

He is afraid that he will do something so terrible, that _he_ will have to leave _her_.

There _is_ a limit. Even now, with so much guilt gnawing at his soul, he finds it hard sometimes to embrace her. Roy doesn't want to ruin her, _corrupt_ her. Riza, sensing this, tells him quite often that he is being foolish, that she isn't some 'delicate flower' who will shrink from him because of acts committed on the battlefield. But still…Roy is afraid that something might happen…if he drops any further then he already has, he'll have no real choice but to pull away from her. She won't understand. She'll resist, fight it, insist that she doesn't care.

But Roy will not bring the woman he loves down to his level. He _can't._

The worst part is, he's almost certain that he'll reach that point, and soon.

He isn't sure why, exactly, but lately he's been having this feeling that his days spent loving Riza Hawkeye are numbered…that, because of his debasement, he's about to lose what they have forever.

It pisses him off, because he wants…_needs_ Riza, the way Hughes _needs_ to have a billion pictures of his girlfriend at his side, the way Kimbly _needs_ to be able to blow people up in order to truly feel alive. He doesn't want to lose her, doesn't want to have to face Ishbal and whatever comes after alone. But it's like he's a puppet, with his strings being pulled in a direction he doesn't want to go, and he can't get himself free.

His biggest fear isn't dying—it's losing Riza. And to lose her because of something _he's_ done…well…he'd rather push her away and suffer in silence for all eternity before it ever came to that. He'd rather cut her lose now, instead of watching as she absorbs his punishment for being the criminal he is.

God, if only this war would end, if only he could escape this hellhole before he lost what was most important to him…

Sitting here now, in the midst of this sandstorm, Roy tries to reason with himself. Honestly, what could he possibly do that could be _so_ bad as to make him too ashamed to go near Riza? He's already killed, burned, destroyed…what is there left for him to do?

"Roy."

Whatever Riza is about to say gets cut off, as the tent flap opens again. Another soldier enters, saluting when he sees the Flame Alchemist.

"Sir, Colonel Grand has requested to see you immediately."

Roy tenses, almost on instinct. The Colonel is a gruff, brash, rather crude man who has plenty of power out here in the desert, and knows it. From what Roy can tell, his opinion on this war is that the Ishbalans are bugs needing to be stepped on. Roy Mustang isn't his biggest fan.

Riza focuses her stern gaze on the other soldier. Idly, Roy wonders if perhaps her sixth sense is bothering her, too. There's something wrong with this…

"Did he say why?" Riza asks, and there is a definitely suspicious tone to her voice. The soldier just shrugs.

"He said he has a private mission for the Flame Alchemist involving two traitors. That's all I know."

Riza frowns, and Roy knows she doesn't like the sound of it—but isn't that just like her, to take on his concern without skipping a beat.

"Sir…" It's _sir _now, as long as this soldier's in the tent. Their relationship is hidden, and probably always will be. Riza is looking at him again, and he can't quite read the emotion in her eyes…but it doesn't matter. He has already gotten to his feet.

"Don't worry, Sergeant." He hates using her title, hates when she uses his. Necessity dictates—Roy hates to listen. "It's probably no big deal. I'll see you later."

Riza stands, salutes, looks every inch the perfect soldier.

_(Roy knows that, should this messenger ask her later out of curiosity, she will reply simply that she was in her superior's tent seeking refuge from the storm. He isn't sure why that idea bothers him as much as it does.)_

"Yes sir," and it comes out crisp and clean, her voice steady, emotionless. Only her eyes are alive right now, but Roy doesn't try and meet them. He doesn't know why…he's dreading this meeting with Grand, and he doesn't know _why._ Roy doesn't know what the man has in store for him, but he's all too aware that whatever it is, it isn't going to be good. _How_ he knows, he isn't sure. He just…does.

He passes Riza, following the soldier out of the tent. He has a sudden urge to look back—perhaps a part of him has realized he's embraced her for the last time. But he doesn't…

_(He will regret that later, regret that he didn't simply turn and run. For years afterwards, he will dream that he did look back, that his future turned out much, much differently, that there really had been some way to keep his relationship with Riza Hawkeye from shattering. But always he wakes up, and each morning seems more bitter then the last.)_

Stepping outside, Roy squints as bright, harsh sunlight hits his eyes. He hadn't realized before now, but the sandstorm has ended. The encampment's a dirty mess—soldiers are running all over the place trying to clean up—but the sky is a deep blue, something it hasn't been for a few days now. In the distance comes that familiar sound of gunfire, no longer held back by wild winds. The war has resumed its natural, deadly course. That one quick moment of peace is over, for Roy anyway.

He wonders if it will ever return.

"_This uprising will bring out the beast in us."_

* * *

AN 9/23/10- Minor edits. I would like to apologize for how retarded my old author's notes were. Clearly the drooling fangirl I was in high school needed to be slapped. Oh, fanfiction. Why am I 21 and still writing you?


	10. In Which Roy Mustang Falls In Love

AN- No, your eyes do not deceive you...an update for this story, at long last! Got sick of it sitting around, and there're other things I want to start but didn't because I still had this collection to worry about...

For newcomers (it's been like, three years since I updated this thing...I'm assuming most of its original readers'r gone!), I should point out that, since this is an older collection, most of the writing is NOT a fair example of how well I can write. I've gotten a tad bit better since _Colors_!

This will be the last chapter for this collection...my writing is far different then what's showcased here, I'm focusing on other collections now, and honestly, after so many years, I think this series has run its course. A huge thank you goes out to everyone who's read, and/or reviewed it! I got some great feedback on it and had a hell of a lot of fun writing the one-shots it's made up of.

(In case anyone is wondering...the chapter previous to this, _Of Your Own Desire, Trapped_, is no longer in this collection, but it's still on the site. Since it was a themed one-shot, I've moved it to _Every Missing Irony._ The author's note in that fic explains it more.)

Thanks!

* * *

#11

_**In Which Roy Mustang Falls In Love (And Chaos Ensues)**_

Colonel Roy Mustang had a reputation to uphold. He _was_, after all, both the famous Flame Alchemist and a full-time pervert. Roy knew as well as anyone that he was expected to be brave, dashing, determined, suave, ambitious, good with the ladies…

And so, when not doing his best to be a metaphorical thorn in the Führer's side, Colonel Mustang did his best to be the type of womanizer everyone thought he was. It was a good cover, anyway…couldn't hurt to have an act to hide behind, considering his political aspirations. Roy was excellent when it came to politics, and the frenzied give-or-take games that came with it; there were even times when he enjoyed the competitive nature of it all. Sometimes he'd get caught up in the battles without blood.

Of course, he didn't exactly enjoy the backstabbing…or the callous characters he was forced to rub shoulders with, who whispered one thing to him and another thing entirely to everyone else…

But, regardless, Mustang was caught up in the mayhem, and he knew having a good cover—'oh, don't worry about him, he's not snooping around…just trying to impress another lady friend!'—was vital to his position. So he cultivated his careless-with-romance persona very carefully, with the same sort of calculating mindset he'd used in Ishbal. He liked to think that every date he went on allowed him to continue fooling the idiot higher-ups for just a _little_ bit longer.

Also, it allowed Roy Mustang to go on a lot of dates with a lot of very pretty women. Very…_easy_, pretty women.

This was a definite bonus.

Fridays were his designated 'date evenings': this way, if things didn't go so well, he could spend the rest of the weekend choosing next week's girl. And if things _did_ go well, then he had the entire weekend to…well…

Suffice to say that when the date was successful, Roy was always rather sleepy on Monday mornings.

But these dates were just…dates. Roy had been with a lot of nice young ladies—and one nice young man, but he hadn't been aware of _that_ at the time—many of whom would've made fine long-term girlfriends. He did actually date one of them steadily for a time; her name was Mary, and she was very demure, very polite, very good-natured.

Honestly, Roy had found her to be a bit _boring_ after a while.

So, besides Mary, he'd had nothing but quick flings for quite a while now. It wasn't as if he was utterly opposed to the idea of settling down—hell, if he was, Maes would probably go and arrange his marriage anyway! He just had yet to find someone worth settling down _with_.

(Who could ever stand him for more then a few months? Who could put up with his temper, his arrogance, his thrashing and screaming in his foul dreams at night?)

* * *

Towards the beginning of spring, Roy happened to take a different way home from the office then he usually did. It was so warm, so sunny…he couldn't help but cut through the park, even if it did add several minutes to his commute.

And, with the cheesy sort of luck that tends to appear on warm spring days, he happened to pass by a brown-haired, blue-eyed beauty as he passed the large fountain in the park's center square. He stopped to talk to her, because she was pretty and didn't have a ring on her finger, and she showed off a sun-drenched smile.

Her name was Helen, and she agreed to meet him at a fancy little restaurant at eight o'clock that Friday night. Roy hummed to himself as he left the park.

* * *

That Friday morning, another part of Mustang's dating ritual made himself known.

"You big moron. When're you gonna stop _kidding_ yourself?" Maes Hughes leaned over Roy's desk and grabbed for a paperweight, which he proceeded to fiddle with. Roy, well-aware of his best friend's dire need to have his hands busy at all times, kept a wary eye out, wondering how long it would take for the paperweight to fall and break _this_ time.

"You shouldn't be making dates with girls when you're already _taken_."

"Maes, I'm as single as Havoc." Roy leaned back in his chair, bored. "Why're you always so upset with me dating? _You're_ the one who's nagging me to get married all the time."

"Well, yeah, but with the right woman!"

"And how am I supposed to figure out who that woman _is_ if I don't—"

"Ahem. You already know who that woman is. You're just being stubborn."

"Oh really." Roy's gaze traveled to his desk and stayed there. He knew exactly what was coming. "Funny, I haven't the faintest idea…"

Hughes snorted. "Do the words 'blonde', 'sharpshooter', and 'd-cup' bring anyone to mind?"

"Hmm. I don't know if Hawkeye's a _d_…not that I'm complaining if she _is_—"

"Will you please just go and ask her to marry you so I can attend your wedding already? You wait much longer and Elysia's going to be too old to be the flower girl!"

Roy stood up, abruptly. His typical response to this part of Hughes's charade was to simply roll his eyes and change the subject, but today the conversation was getting on his nerves for some reason.

"Maes. The girl I'm taking out tonight—Helen—is a perfectly nice woman. I saw her again yesterday on the way home, and we had a really interesting conversation. She _smiled_, she didn't get annoyed when I told her she looked nice, she didn't _threaten_ me—"

"Oh, you're just grumpy because Hawkeye said she'd break your hands if you used them for anything other then signing papers today."

"Exactly! Helen, so far as I know, is a normal, _sane_ human being. Forget the fact that fraternization between officers is _illegal_…why would I even _consider_ First Lieutenant Hawkeye when I could date someone who _doesn't_ regularly send bullets in my direction?"

Hughes smiled cheerfully. "Because you love her."

"Dammit, Maes. Go bother someone else."

"Ok, fine. Have it your way, ignore my wise words of wisdom." Roy winced as paperweight nearly hit the ground, but Hughes managed to catch it at the last second. "But I guarantee that you'll end up making out with Hawkeye one of these days."

"Hnn. I'm looking forward to my date with _Helen_, thank you very much."

"_Subconsciously_ you're actually longing to get inside Riza's pants—"

_Thunk._

"…Oh. Oops."

Roy growled and grabbed the broken chunks of paperweight from his friend. "Hughes."

"Yes, Mister I-Fantasize-About-My-First-Lieutenant?"

"_Get. Out_."

"Alright, alright." Hughes wandered out, but then stopped in the doorway and turned back around. "Hey! Know what I just realized?"

"I don't care!"

'"Helen' and 'Hawkeye' both begin with H. That just proves it! You think you don't love Hawkeye, but in the depths of your mind you're so madly obsessed with her that you instinctively turn towards someone whose name starts with the same letter. Deny it all you want, but you would probably _let_ Hawkeye break your hands if she agreed to take off her clothes afterwards—"

Roy threw the paperweight chunks at him.

* * *

Helen wore an elegant red dress that night. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she had on just enough make-up to really bring out the color in her eyes. She smiled appreciatively when Roy used his rank to get them the best table in the house, but didn't giggle or simper the way some of his sillier dates tended to do. And she was infallibly polite to the waiter when he came.

She ordered a simple, appetizing chicken dish, and agreed to his suggestion that they order a bottle of wine. Their conversation while waiting for the food was brisk, entertaining…Helen was obviously well educated, intelligent.

"So you're in the military." She took a sip of water and looked at him. "That must be an exciting job."

"Heh…" Roy shook his head. "That's one way to put it. Being a State Alchemist is exciting, but not always in a good way."

"Oh!" she said in surprise. "You're an alchemist? I didn't realize…"

"Yeah…the Flame Alchemist, actually." He paused. "You've probably heard of the title, anyway."

"Sorry." She smiled embarrassedly. "I'm not really into politics and current affairs."

"Can't say I blame you."

"I've always been more of a history person, myself." Helen laughed slightly. "If you'd been the Flame Alchemist a hundred years ago I'd probably know everything about you!"

Roy chuckled. "History, huh? So, what, do you teach it?"

"No, just read. I must have a dozen of those ridiculous, five hundred page monstrosities on someone who's been dead for years and years sitting on my coffee table at home. I suppose if I'd—oh, I'm sorry, I'm boring you to death."

"No, actually." Roy glanced up as the waiter approached with their first-course salads. "History is very interesting, always has been." His voice trailed off slightly. "It's interesting to think about all the horrible things people have had to live through…"

"Ohh." Helen wrinkled her nose. "You're one of _those_ people. Into all the wars and bloodshed." Roy grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "I guess that makes sense, in a way," she nodded. "The villains of the past are always so fascinating to learn about. Their motives, their ideas…what made them tick…"

"The villains of history…" Roy repeated, softly. "…Yeah. I'm interested in them. In not becoming them. If it isn't too late already."

Helen's smile faded a bit, and her brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "Hmm? Do you mean…oh! 'Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it', that sort of thing, right?" She nodded. "Pretty deep. But it _does_ make sense, that a soldier would be interested in that sort of logic."

Roy hesitated. "It's not that I'm _interested_ in it—"

"Food's here," Helen sang out. "It looks _gorgeous_…what kind of sauce is that, on yours?"

"Some fancy lemon thing."

'"Fancy lemon thing'?" she teased him. "Sounds appetizing, all right." She raised her glass, and announced, "How about a toast? A toast to us—oh, that was so _corny_, wasn't it!"

Roy merely started to eat.

* * *

The rest of the date went by in the same pleasant mood. Helen proved to be every inch an amusing, enjoyable woman to spend time with. Roy walked her home, since she lived only minutes from his place—"We might as well be neighbors!" she chirped cheerfully as they reached her front door.

"Well." Roy, ever the suave gentleman, leaned in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Tonight was fun. A lot of fun."

"Yeah, um…" Helen suddenly looked rather shy. "I enjoyed it too." She faltered slightly, and then, in a rush: "Um—would you like to come—"

"Damn," Mustang found himself sighing over her, "Damn, it got so late. I'd better get back."

"O-Oh. Of…of course. Yeah, I guess it did get pretty late." Her face had gone bright red, but an inviting grin from Roy made her flush for an entirely different reason. (He always _had_ been good at dealing with flustered women.) "Same time next Friday sound good?" she asked, her eyes betraying her eagerness.

Roy smiled again and murmured some noncommittal reply. Within five minutes he was striding back to his apartment, leaving a confused, hopeful Helen watching him walk off.

* * *

"So, how went your date on Friday with whatshername…Helga?"

"It's _Helen_. And it went fine."

"Really?"

"_Yes_, Hughes. It was probably one of the best dates I've had in a while. She's funny, knows how to hold up her end of the conversation…really, she might be the perfect woman for me."

"Nah. She's not, I can tell you that right now."

"Just because you are under the sick delusion that First Lieutenant Hawkeye and I are somehow _destined_ to—"

"Well, you _are_, but that's not the point. If she was the 'perfect woman' for you, you would've 'spent the weekend', if you get my drift."

"Who says I didn't?"

"You didn't. You're not tired enough, and you're not humming. You always hum after a weekend of getting laid."

"Well, maybe that means I respect her? Maybe, just _maybe_, she wasn't _ready_ for that step and I care enough about her to wait—"

"Gosh, one date and you've already agreed to wait until marriage? You are such an _atrocious_ liar."

"Hughes! Quit prying into my personal life, would you!"

"Hey, no need to get so defensive."

"Helen is a _great person_. She's _exactly_ the kind of girl I'm into. I'd be an idiot to turn her down!"

"See, normally, I might agree. Maybe if you were single…"

"I _am_ single!"

"Nope. You're engaged to Hawkeye."

"…Engaged to Hawkeye."

"Yup."

"…I've never even _kissed_ Hawkeye!"

"Details, details. I've seen how you look at her! Always staring at her pretty eyes and then turning red and looking somewhere else when she notices."

"I don't do that! I don't _stare_ at her eyes!"

"Well, you're staring at _some_ part of her…and if it's not her eyes, it's probably her boobs. Not that I can _blame_ you, exactly, they're certainly nice and…large, but…better be careful! She catches you, she might castrate you. That could be bad."

"_I don't stare at any part of Riza Hawkeye!_"

"Well, then you're staring at the person who sits behind her. …Wait. That's Havoc."

"Hughes—"

"Wow! I never realized you _swung_ that way. You'd better swing back though, since you're engaged to Hawkeye and all. She might not like a gay husband."

"Did you hear what I said? I like _Helen_! Not Hawkeye! _**Not Havoc**_! _H-e-l-e-n_!"

"Ok."

"And just so you know, I am going out with her again this Friday!"

"Ok."

"So you can just—just—did you say ok?"

"Yup."

"…Aren't you gonna nag me some more…?"

"Nah. I just want you be as happy in the romance department as I am. If this Helen makes you all woozy inside the way Gracia makes me, then ok. I'll support it. As long as it's what you really want, I'm fine."

"…Alright then."

"Yup."

"…I'm not in love with Hawkeye."

"Ok. I'll have to accept that, I guess."

"No, really. I'm _not_."

"…I just said I can accept that—"

"Dammit, Maes! I'm not! There is no way in hell I'm in love with Riza! I don't stare at her eyes _or_ her breasts, I don't fantasize about getting her in bed, I don't dream about her…or…or wonder what her hair smells like…and…and I don't care if her skin's as smooth as it looks…or…how she manages to look so good in that ugly uniform…"

"…Um."

"…Hughes."

"Er…yeah?"

"I said none of that. You hear me? _None_."

"If you say so."

"…Fine."

"…So have you and Hawkeye decided on a date for the wedding yet?"

"Goddamn it."

* * *

Date number two with Helen went just as smoothly as its predecessor. She really was 'the perfect catch'…Roy knew that. Pretty and smart—most men would jump at the chance to be with her. Roy knew that as well. When, at her front door afterwards, she let a hand brush his sleeve, and asked if he would be interested in coming in for coffee…he knew he'd be a fool to say no. Girls like Helen were never single for long; if he kept putting her off, he'd end up losing his chance.

And, after all, there was no reason why he _should_ put her off. Her eyes were warm and inviting, and offered him everything any decent person could ask from a girl…

"Sorry," he said. "I had fun, but…" Her eyes clouded over with confusion—she started to speak—

"Sorry," Roy repeated. "I don't think I can."

* * *

It was drizzling when he knocked on Riza Hawkeye's door. She opened it up, looking surprised to see him there, but he cut her off before she could get out a word.

"Riza," he said (and then, even as he rushed on, he took note of the startled reaction she had to his use of her first name), "Riza, I was just on a date with a perfect woman." Now his lieutenant looked _pissed_ rather then surprised, but he continued anyway— "She was smart and funny and…I think every man in the world would probably jump at the chance to go out with her. I'd be a real idiot to turn her down and I know it."

"Colonel…" Hawkeye began, and the ice in her eyes was matched only by the barely-suppressed anger in her voice, "Why are you—"

"But, Hawk—Riza—that date…well, those two dates, anyway…I—"

"Sir!" his lieutenant snapped. "I have no interest in—"

"I was so goddamn bored on those dates!"

A pause.

Hawkeye obviously chose her next words carefully, and spoke them with the same cautious bewilderment she might use when dealing with the incurably insane. "What exactly are you trying to say, Colonel?"

Roy began to pace slightly. This managed to make him look even crazier. "A date that any straight, red-blooded man would have enjoyed, with a nice-looking woman any straight, red-blooded man would've been drooling at, and I was bored out of my mind. I didn't even want to _sleep_ with her!"

"But why—"

"I tried to pretend otherwise! I seriously did! Went on a second date with her and everything. And she's such a _good_ date, goddamn it. Couldn't ask for more in a woman. But she bored the hell out of me, and I know that's not normal."

"…Colonel," Hawkeye said flatly, "If this is your version of a midlife-crises, I want nothing to do with it."

"That's not it!" Roy protested. "There's only one reason I'd be bored on a date with Helen, and that's if I was already in love with someone else. And…fuck! That's exactly what it is! I'm in love with someone else, even though I really don't think that's at _all_ smart, considering who it is…"

"With all due respect," she cut in icily, "shouldn't you be telling the object of your affections all this?"

"I am! Or at least, I'm trying to. Shit! Do you see how fucked up this is? I'm friggen _Roy Mustang_, I know how to talk to women! And yet I'm standing here babbling like an idiot—_yes_, I'm well aware of how ridiculous I sound—because for some shitty reason you standing in front of me is making me feel sorta nauseous. But in a good way. Well, no, a really frustrating, annoying-as-all-fuck way. But still a good way."

Roy cursed.

"Dammit, that's what I mean! I have told plenty of women that I think they're attractive and would like to go out with them, but I can't tell the woman I actually love that because, even if it was _legal_ to date her—and of fucking course it's not—I apparently can't _talk_ to her. Which makes no sense, because I talk to her all the damn time!"

Roy cursed again.

"And I'm still babbling, which is so goddamn _perfect_, and I'm about five seconds away from kissing whatever part of you I can reach, and you'll probably shoot me in the groin for trying but for some reason I don't care if you do. Goddamn it! Hughes will never let me live this down."

He finished this speech with an indignant huff, and proceeded to make good on his threat. He kissed her, hard, directly on the lips, and wrapped an arm around her waist while doing so.

She didn't even shoot him.

* * *

"Hey, lovebird." Hughes sat on the edge of Roy's desk, and grabbed Roy's latest paperweight. "How'd your date with Helen go? "

The colonel looked up, blankly. "…Who?"

"…Uh. Helen. You took her out last Friday…? Said she was the perfect girl? Remember?"

"…Oh." Roy considered this. "Oh. Her. Yeah, didn't work out."

Hughes eyed him. "Well, you slept with someone this weekend. You were humming when I walked in."

"Nope." Roy attempted, unsuccessfully, to catch Lieutenant Hawkeye's eye, but she merely continued to look down at her work. "Actually, didn't manage to get much past first base. Talked a lot…some kissing. Some really, really _great_ kissing. No sex though."

"…And that's enough to make you hum?"

"Screw you, I like humming."

"…Ok, Roy, who'd you find? Because you have the worst case of lovesickness I've ever seen."

"I didn't really find anyone…no one new, anyway. Known her for years."

"Then I probably know her! Who was it!"

Roy smiled. Hughes was like a dog begging for a bone, and revenge tasted oh so sweet. He glanced over at Hawkeye again, and raised an eyebrow.

Was she…blushing?

_Excellent._

Hughes followed his gaze, and his jaw dropped. "You _didn't_!"

"Didn't what?"

"You…and _Hawkeye_…"

"Did not have sex, and so therefore did not _really_ break any rules. Talking between friends is still allowed."

"But I knew it! I always did! And you always insisted I was nuts!"

"You _are_ nuts. It just so happened that you were right this time."

"But—! But—!" Hughes sputtered, and Roy held his hand out with a smirk.

"I'll take the paperweight back now."


End file.
